


A Spark of Self

by KChan88



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 04:46:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3368372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KChan88/pseuds/KChan88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras has a falling out with his father. Combeferre and Courfeyrac, worried and noticing Enjolras is most certainly not himself (though he tries to hide it), enlist Feuilly’s help to set Enjolras back on the path that defines his spirit. Fits in my Les Hommes de la Misericorde verse but can easily be read alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Spark of Self

**Author's Note:**

> In this verse, Enjolras’ parents names are Aubry and Flora, and his maternal grandmother’s name is Violet.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac were at a loss. Combeferre, of course, for all his teasing about Enjolras’ stubbornness, was nearly just as much so in his own way, and was not keen to  _admit_  he was at a loss.

“Enjolras is a dreadful pretender,” Courfeyrac whispers conspiratorially into Combeferre’s ear, so softly Combeferre scarcely hears. “He has that book open, he has paper out and pen in his hand, but his gaze his not focused on either activity. Surely he cannot think we don’t notice?”

 

“I think he only made the pretense of trying to fool us,” Combeferre muses. He has only seen Enjolras like this perhaps twice before, and it never lasts long. He has melancholy certainly, days when his frustration and anger at the plight of the suffering people around them, of the injustices taking place every day reach a hilt in his soul, but this is different and much rarer. This is as if a shroud of sadness, of incredibly uncharacteristic doubt surrounds his friend. It is not despair because that is not how Enjolras operates even in his darkest moments, but he is clearly struggling with himself, a thunderstorm blocking out his light even as he tries reaching for it.

 “Or perhaps he really was attempting to work and didn’t notice he got lost in his own head,” Combeferre continues. “In any case, we are the only ones paying close attention to him.” Combeferre pauses a moment, eyes catching on Feuilly. “Or, well, perhaps Feuilly is. The others are more…occupied.”

Courfeyrac laughs, and Combeferre can’t help but grin despite his worry as he surveys the room. The meeting ended hours ago, and it was just the nine of them remaining: Joly and Grantaire are far into the wine by now, and Bossuet, who seems content to sip at his, makes conducting gestures at the other two as they sing a very intoxicated version of La Marseillaise. Joly, overcome with a case of the hiccups, ceases every few bars and Grantaire snorts with laughter.

“Never try out for the opera, either of you,” Combeferre hears Bossuet mutter, amusement clear in his eyes.

Prouvaire, meanwhile, is engaged in what appears a very intense conversation with Bahorel about something to do with fate, eternity, and religion.

Combeferre looks back at Enjolras, whose eyes have fallen back to the book, though it is clear he isn’t actually reading, only tapping at the table with the edge of his pen. His gaze moves to Feuilly, who nods his head in the direction of the door, a question in his eyes. The three of them walk quietly out of the back room, stepping out into the cool autumn air.

“Is everything all right with Enjolras?” Feuilly asks almost instantly, sliding his hands into his pockets. “I know he returned from home last week and said something about a disagreement with his father, but he was a bit vague? I know they stopped getting along as he got older, when he got involved with all of this, but this instance seemed different.”

“It was,” Courfeyrac answers darkly, angry. “Aubry told him in no uncertain terms not to return home until he stopped ‘engaging in madness and foolish idealism’ and ‘behaving in a childish, selfish, dangerous manner and needlessly risking lives including his own’ to quote what Enjolras relayed to us.”

“Disowned?” Feuilly asks, growing more concerned.

“Not exactly,” Combeferre replies. “Something tells me his father won’t send him money any longer, but Enjolras’ mother and grandmother have money of their own; his grandmother is an American heiress who moved here when she married a Frenchman, who is now deceased, and she encourages his politics. No matter Aubry’s anger, Flora and Violet’s fury at this treatment of Enjolras will be even worse, and Aubry won’t stop them from paying for Enjolras’ schooling and expenses. I’ve seen the dynamic in the Enjolras household before.”

“Even if Aubry sent him money, I’m quite sure Enjolras might send it back,” Courfeyrac mutters. “Or give it away. Aubry slapped Enjolras in the face before Enjolras stormed out of the room.”

Feuilly stares at them for a moment, then shakes his head and speaks again.

“Is he normally prone to violence? Enjolras doesn’t speak about him a great deal.”

“He’s not, no,” Combeferre says, frowning. “He’s usually very mild-mannered and I’m sure it was the rage of the moment, but it doesn’t excuse it, not in the least. Enjolras wants very badly to not be upset by this, but it’s very obvious he is, at least to us, and we’ve had trouble getting him to allow himself to process. He wants to be himself, and he’s annoyed at his distraction, but no matter their fighting, he’s essentially lost his father, for now, and they were very close when Enjolras was younger. But you know Enjolras…”

“He is hard pressed to allow himself to be upset over something like this,” Courfeyrac finishes, turning to look at Feuilly, an idea sparking in his eyes. “Do you want to try speaking to him Feuilly? It might do some good.”

“Me?” Feuilly asks, pointing at himself. “I don’t know why I’d be any better than the two of you; you know him so thoroughly.”

“You know him very well yourself,” Courfeyrac argues, gentle. “And besides that, he knows our tactics far too well and might not expect you to talk to him about this. Also to your advantage, he happens to worship the ground upon which you walk, so he will be far less likely to become annoyed if you prod.”

“Oh,” Feuilly scoffs, blushing slightly. “As if he does not love and value the two of you more than even Jehan could put into one of his verses.”

“Well of  _course_  he does,” Courfeyrac says with a dramatic emphasis, teasing. “But he subverts us more easily when it comes to these things. Just trust me.”

Feuilly smiles, shaking his head.

“All right,” he says, giving in. “I will do my best.”

“Thank you Feuilly,” Combeferre says, breathing a sigh of relief, clasping his friend’s hand. “Let us see if these lieutenants can win against their general then, shall we?”

————————————————————————————————————————

Enjolras jumps when Feuilly pulls out the chair next to his.

The jumping itself is not so odd: it happens sometimes when Enjolras is deep in thought and is unexpectedly interrupted. What’s uncharacteristic about it is just how  _much_  he jumps, hand twitching so that it nearly knocks the candle off the table, a far cry from Enjolras’ usual grace.

“Oh, Feuilly,” he says with a hint of a smile that fades in half a second. “My apologies. I was thinking.”

“So I see,” Feuilly says, surveying Enjolras’ face, noting that Enjolras, who normally looks people directly in the eyes when speaking to them, averts his gaze very quickly.

“Can I do something for you?” Enjolras asks, and Feuilly sees the shadows darkening the blue of Enjolras’ eyes.

“I just came to speak to you,” Feuilly replies. “I don’t need anything. Are you well?”

“Yes, yes I’m fine,” Enjolras replies, less firmness in his tone than usual, and Feuilly notes that even tied back the blonde curls are wilder than normal, as if Enjolras slept roughly and utterly forgot to brush his hair.

“All settled in after your trip home to Marseilles?” Feuilly asks, daring to let his gaze flick over to Combeferre and Courfeyrac for a moment: Combeferre is excellent at pretending as if he is not paying attention to their conversation. Courfeyrac, however, is not, and so Feuilly looks quickly back at Enjolras.

Enjolras’ expression darkens further, and despite his efforts, he cannot hide it entirely.

“As best I can, yes,” Enjolras answers, intentionally vague.

“You are sure you are all right?” Feuilly presses. “I know you mentioned a disagreement with your father? And forgive me for saying so, but you do not seem yourself.”

Enjolras is silent, contemplating Feuilly for a moment, his eyes flickering over to Combeferre and Courfeyrac for the barest second, some of the pieces coming together behind his eyes, lips edging up into less than a ghost of a smile before that too, fades.

“I am not, I admit,” Enjolras says, turning back to Feuilly. “But it is no matter. This will pass and I do not want to burden you.”

“You aren’t,” Feuilly says, offering his own smile. “We are the same in not wanting to burden our friends, Enjolras, so let us work on that together shall we? The nine of us could never be burdens on each other, in any case.”

Enjolras’ smile forms again, lingering for longer this time.

“I saw this day coming with my father long ago,” Enjolras begins. “But I held out hope that he would  _see_. See what we are fighting for. It is not so much the cause itself he disagrees with: it is me fighting for it, me risking, and as he would put it, wasting my life. He does not believe it can happen, our republic.”

“He is wrong, then,” Feuilly says. “I know it must hurt to lose him.”

“I would rather be angry,” Enjolras says, meeting Feuilly’s eyes now. “I am angry. It is easier to be angry than it is to feel hurt. But despite myself, it  _does_ hurt. We were so close when I was a child, even an adolescent. My political stirrings were always beneath the surface, and he knew that, but when they became real, well. We have been fighting ever since. It began when I was fifteen or so, and has lasted ever since. I suppose this was the final straw for him. And for me. I am saddened by what could have been, by what was. By what effect this will have on my mother. But I do not regret walking away from him.” Enjolras pauses, and his voice is tremulous, a whisper in a way Feuilly has never heard him utter before.

 “I do not want him to be right.”

There, among all of Enjolras’ moments of soaring belief, is a small, human pebble of doubt, inflicted by a man who should have been the last person to place it there.

“He isn’t,” Feuilly insists, firm where for once Enjolras cannot find it within himself. “Whatever he said about our cause, about you, none of it’s true because it was borne out of fear. Whoever would dare call you selfish and childish…” Feuilly stops, realizing himself.

A half smile plays at Enjolras’ lips. “You have been talking to Combeferre and Courfeyrac,” he says. “Don’t worry, I do not mind. They were looking to help, as always.”

“Yes,” Feuilly says, chuckling a bit before turning serious again. “But none of this is madness or foolish idealism. History is on our side: the world changes only through effort, after all. And you are not needlessly risking lives. We all stand by you willingly and in full knowledge of what we’re doing, chose you to lead us for a reason. Grieve for your loss, Enjolras. But do not let your father make you doubt who you are.”

Feuilly watches as Enjolras’ smile spreads, the light finally reaching his eyes, and Feuilly’s heart lifts.

“I am finding this book fascinating so far,” Enjolras says, holding his gaze, a renewed exuberance in his tone, fervor in his eyes. “And I know you have read it. Care to talk over it with me?”

“Of course,” Feuilly says, enthusiastic. “Let me go top off my glass and I will return.”

Enjolras nods, and as Feuilly goes down the stairs he watches Enjolras turn toward Combeferre and Courfeyrac, raising his eyebrows, but unable to stop from smiling as they do their best to feign innocence.

In that moment, Feuilly swears he can feel a spark of energy light the room.


End file.
